


A Study In You

by rude_ravenclaw



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-17 13:40:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11276418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rude_ravenclaw/pseuds/rude_ravenclaw
Summary: Your brother has been missing for far too long. It seems that nobody could give you answers. That is, until you went to the one man who could solve any mystery.





	1. "Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Girl That Stole His Heart"

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on my Tumblr (fanfiction-palace).

The cobbled streets of London were crowded with busy people and lazy buggies. Horses clopped along the broken Baker Street, dirty boys shouted about the latest Dr. Watson story, and women under brightly colored parasols gossiped about the reclusive and handsome detective, Sherlock Holmes.

  
You quickly made your way down the cracked pavement, your own parasol hanging from your arm. The sun was out but it was hidden by a dense layer of smog. The buildings lining Baker Street were covered in a veil of soot that eventually stuck to everyone and everything. When you reached the recently polished door of 221 Baker Street, the hem of your lilac colored dress was black with soot. You grumbled to yourself as you banged the knocker three times against the black door.

  
Quick footsteps could be heard, a crash of what sounded like dinner plates, and a muffled yell before the door swung open with such force that the knocker banged against the door. A rather disheveled man with an obnoxious mustache was standing in the doorway. His breathing was heavy as he attempted to smooth down his hair and fix his beige vest. It took a moment but you recognized the mustache.

  
“Dr. Watson,” you said with a grin, extending a gloved hand, “I’m (Y/N) and I’m here to get Mr. Holmes’ help.”

  
Dr. Watson took your hand and shook it cautiously. “Women don’t usually shake hands,” he said innocently, clearly in shock by your out-of-place gesture.

  
“A curtsy dirties the dress and a kiss wrinkles the glove. A shake is quicker and easier,” you replied curtly.

  
“I meant no offense, Madam, I apologize.”

  
“No offense taken, Doctor. May I consult Mr. Holmes?”

  
Dr. Watson swallowed hard at this question and ran a hand through his hair. “Now is not the best time. The detective is in one of his.. erm.. moods. Shall I send you a telegram once he’s straightened out?”

  
As if he had been called to dinner, Mr. Holmes in a royal purple smoking jacket and no shoes or stockings came flying down the stairs. He towered behind Dr. Watson who now looked simply perplexed. “John, I knew it was a client at the door so why haven’t you brought her up yet?”

  
Mr. Holmes was wild eyed and a strand of his oiled hair fell across his face. “I don’t believe you are fit to be taking clients at the moment. Your feet aren’t quite on the ground,” Dr. Watson said tight lipped.

  
To this, Mr. Holmes pushed his hair out of his face, buttoned his smoking jacket, and bent forward into a deep bow, extending his hand to you. “How may I be of assistance, Miss?”

  
You took Mr. Holmes’ hand and gave it a strong shake, to the surprise of the detective as well. “I may have a case for you, Mr. Holmes,” you say assuredly.

  
“My, you’re a case in yourself. A woman who shakes and does not curtsy.” Mr. Holmes’ ice blue gaze examined you from head to foot. You could almost hear the wheels turning in his head as he learned everything about you. Gripping your parasol tightly, you began to grow nervous under his stare. In Dr. Watson’s stories you had read about him doing this but it was a completely different experience actually having it happen.

 

“Sherlock, could you not make the woman uncomfortable, for God’s sake?” John said, looking at you apologetically.

  
You quickly shook your head and took a step towards the door. “It’s quite alright, Dr. Watson,” you said, failing to sound convincing.

  
Mr. Holmes took one more look of you, up and down, before clenching his strong jaw and turning on his heel. “Follow,” he said monotonously. John stepped out of the doorway and gestured with a hand up the stairs. You cautiously stepped over the threshold and began to climb the narrow wooden stairs.

  
“Oh, Sherlock, look at the mess you’ve made,” you hear an older woman shrill from the top of the stairs. You step into the dimly lit sitting area of 221B and find a small woman picking up the pieces of what used to be a tea cup. You were close.

  
“Mrs. Hudson, you were in need of a new set anyhow. And please don’t fuss while I have a client,” Mr. Holmes said rather harshly. You were taken aback by how he treated the kind looking woman.  
“Don’t talk to me like that, Mister. I’d have the right mind to send a telegram your brother,” she snapped back before turning to you with a warm smile. “Good morning deary, shall I get you a spot of tea?”

  
You grinned back at her and said, “No, thank you, ma’am. I don’t imagine I’ll be here long. I must say, I expected you to answer the door.”

  
The smile instantly disappeared from Mrs. Hudson’s face and she turned to Dr. Watson with a glare that could kill. All color drained from the army doctor’s face as Mrs. Hudson stomped past him, slamming the door behind her. “She’s not a fan of the stories,” he laughed nervously.

  
“Please, sit,” Mr. Holmes piped up, dragging a chair in front of two cushioned chairs. Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes took their respective seats and left you at the center of attention. You slowly took your seat, trying to figure out what to say first.

  
Ringing your parasol in your gloved hands, you began, “It’s my brother, he’s gone missing.” You paused, looking between the two men. Dr. Watson sat with legs crossed, hands folded in his lap, and a kind expression on his kind face. Mr. Holmes also sat with legs crossed but his elbows were propped on the arms of his chair, finger tips together and touching his lips. He wore an unreadable expression but gave you a slight nod, prompting you to continue. “He left for America about 3 months ago, expecting to return 2 months ago. My father insisted I not worry about it but it has been 2 months with not so much as a whisper of his whereabouts.”

  
“Why did your brother leave for America?” Dr. Watson asked formally.

  
Before you could open your mouth, Mr. Holmes interjected with an outrageous accusation, “He was running from someone.”

  
“While I live and breath, of course not. My brother was loved by everyone he met. He went to America on business.”

  
“What business then?” Mr. Holmes smirked at you as if he knew something you did not.

  
“Well, I don’t know. Father only said it was business. He claimed a lady had no use knowing,” you say through gritted teeth.

  
“You’re brother was running from someone. He hasn’t returned or made contact, to your knowledge, because it is still unsafe. Your family just recently came into a lot of money, am I right?”

  
Your jaw dropped but you quickly shut your mouth and gained your bearings. “Y..Yes.”

  
“And what did your father tell you the reason was?”

  
“An aunt died and left the family everything she had.”

  
“An aunt you’ve never heard of no doubt. No, that is not what happened. You’re quite worried about the soot about your dress, clearly new, and you don’t use the parasol. Clearly, you weren’t raised to use one. Also, you shake rather than curtsy or accept a kiss, startling signs that you grew up in a poor home of men. You’re uncomfortable with this new lifestyle and are angered by the change in manner your father has toward you. I’m sure your brother is fine in America, but if you so desire, I can look into it.”

  
You were stunned. It was one thing to read the unbelievable stories of Dr. Watson’s but it was surreal to be living it. Mr. Holmes spoke with such swiftness, his deep, smooth voice sounding so matter-of-fact yet reassuring. You couldn’t help but believe him. “No,” you said, your voice sounding distant, “I believe you. Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”

  
Both Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes stared at you in bewilderment. “You’re the only client that has accepted my word as gospel so quickly,” Mr. Holmes breathed. “John, close your mouth.” Dr. Watson quickly closed his mouth and looked away in embarrassment.

  
“Well, it only makes sense, Mr. Holmes. Everything you said makes sense. You’re right, I am rather uncomfortable with the sudden shift. And no, Mr. Holmes, I don’t wish to take up anymore of your time.” Mr. Holmes swallowed nervously. He didn’t say anything, he just stared. He stared at your face, studied it. All you could do was blink at him, frozen under his intense gaze. “You’re extraordinary,” you whispered, enamored by his blue eyes and sharp features.

  
Mr. Holmes quickly looked away and what you could only assume was a blush rose to his cheeks. You too looked down, embarrassed you had said that aloud. “How much do I owe you for your time?” you asked in a hushed voice.

  
“Nothing,” Mr. Holmes said quickly, standing up in a rush.

  
“Oh, well… Thank you, Mr. Holmes, for your…”

  
“Sherlock, please,” he interrupted, extending a hand to you to help you to your feet.

  
You took it, in a daze. “Thank you, Sherlock.” His name slid like honey from your tongue. Your chest tightened as he bent forward and placed a ginger kiss to the back of your hand. His eyes locked on yours the entire time. You didn’t even stop him. You couldn’t. You had been so adamant on rebelling against being “lady-like” but Sherlock Holmes made you feel warm and fuzzy on the inside. Your brain seemed to be on the fritz.

  
“I hope I don’t wrinkle the glove,” his smooth voice said with a smirk.

  
You felt your cheeks grow hot and you couldn’t help but let out a small laugh. “To hell with the glove.”

  
Sherlock smiled down at you, a deep laugh rising in his throat. His eyes crinkled as he smiled and his smile lit up his face. It was contagious. “Shall I take you to the door, (Y/N)?”

  
“I can find my way out, Sherlock, but thank you,” you said before turning to Dr. Watson. He was still sat in his chair, looking at the pair of you with an expression as if he had witnessed a murder. “Dr. Watson?”

  
He shook the expression from his face and stood up, straightening his vest. “Apologies, I was.. uh… lost in thought,” he stammered, extending his hand. You took it in a firm shake and beamed at him. “I hope your brother is alright.”

  
“Thank you, Dr. Watson,” you replied. “Goodbye, gentlemen.” You turned on your heel and opened the door to the stairs.

  
“I wish to see you again,” Sherlock said in a nervous manner. You paused in the doorway and turned slowly to see the detective, his face a deep crimson, standing with a hand slightly outstretched towards you. “Um, to follow up on your brother, of course,” he concluded, clasping his hands behind his back and setting his face with a nonchalant expression.  
You grinned at him before saying, “I wish to see you again, as well, Sherlock.” His face softened and you nodded at Dr. Watson. “Until next time.” You turned and descended the stairs, your heart threatening to fly from your chest.

  
John turned to Sherlock as soon as he heard the door shut behind you. He let out a belly laugh and clasped a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “What a story this case would make! Emotionless Detective Can’t Stop Staring! Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Girl That Stole His Heart!”

  
Sherlock simply cocked his head toward his giggling companion and said, “I thought you were good at titles.” Leaving John to bask in the euphoria of seeing Sherlock lose control of his feelings, the detective walked towards the chair that you had occupied only moments before. He dragged his fingertips along the back of the chair and smiled to himself. “Until next time,” he whispered.


	2. There For You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A messenger brings word that Sherlock needs you... now.

A droplet. Small, salty, and significant. It traveled down the slope of your forehead, grazing past your brow, and slid across the curve of your nose. Sweat was good. It meant you were doing good. 

Since about mid-day, you had been in the back yard practicing fencing. The grand oak tree was not much of an adversary but it made decent practice. Your father would never approve of this but with the hefty allowance he had given you, you could afford a brand new fencing sword and to keep the maid quiet. Father was out on business today so you could practice as much as you wished. You were just thinking of putting down the sword and practicing more of your boxing when you heard the loud boom of the door knocker.

The maid had the day off today so you grudgingly stuck your sword into your belt and walked into the house. Your boots clacked against the polished wood floors, echoing in the small manor. Your brother’s trousers that you had “borrowed” swished as you walked. 

When you reached the door, you drug the back of your hand across your slick forehead before prying open the heavy oak door. A small man with jet black hair stood nervously on the front step. He wore ragged clothes and smelt of cheap whiskey. Clutched in one dirty hand was a piece of paper. 

He looked shocked at your appearance but quickly blinked his expression away. “Are you, (Y/N)?” he asked in a nasally voice.

“Yes, I am,” you replied, curious.

He thrusts the piece of paper towards you and said, “Mr. Holmes urgently requests your presence at Baker Street.” 

You almost asked him to repeat himself. Holmes? Sherlock Holmes was requesting to see you? Your heart sped up to a dangerously rapid pace. A million questions raced through your mind as you took the paper from the messenger. A soft “thank you” was all you could manage before shutting the door. 

Gingerly, as if the paper would turn to ash, you unfolded it. 

_Stop hesitating. ~~I need you~~  I have important information for you. SH _

He knew you would hesitate. Something was scribbled out but you couldn’t quite read it. He needed… something? It didn’t matter. This is an urgent matter and you couldn’t stand daydreaming in the foyer all evening. 

You rushed up to your room, quickly adorning a sunshine yellow dress over your masculine attire. As fast as you could, you made your way down the stairs and out to the horse stable. You tossed a saddle onto your father’s prized horse and clambered on. In no time, you were racing down the streets of London towards 221 Baker Street. 

Once you arrive at the home of Sherlock and Dr. Watson, you leap from your steed and hand the reigns to a nearby boy. Digging a coin out of one of the pockets you had sewn into your dress, you say, “Hold him for me, won’t you?” The dirty boy stares at the shining coin you just pressed into his hand and quickly nods an affirmative. 

You turn to the soot covered door with a recent polished brass knocker and numbers. As you attempt to smooth out the creases of the dress’s skirt, you notice that the door is open. Slowly, you push the door open, your heart in your throat and sweat forming at your brow. Was Sherlock in trouble? Has someone broken in? You make your way up the narrow, creaking stairs, your boots being a little to loud for comfort. Before reaching the top of the stairs, you hear a crash from Sherlock’s flat, as if something had been knocked over. The sound of heavy footsteps reached your ears.

Cautiously, you removed the blade still attached to your waist from under your skirts. You continued up the stairs and peered into the disheveled flat. A scraggly man was rummaging through a desk and it was clear that he had done this too every other container he could find in the flat. 

With an unforeseen courage, you sneak up behind the man, dressed in all black, and press the tip of your sword into his back. The man instantly freezes and in an unwavering voice, you say, “Turn around, slowly.” The man did as you said, revealing a face riddled with scars and a short, red beard. He sneered as he laid eyes on his assailant. 

“What do ya plan on doing to me, lass? Crying until a man comes to save ye?” he says in a grinding, malicious tone. At this comment, a flash of anger surges through you and you lower the sword tip you had placed at his throat. You make this swift action only to gain a better shot for your right hook. Your knuckles crack across his jaw and his knees buckle. A spray of blood falls to the floor with the intruder. 

“I do believe you’re the one who will be needing saving when I’m through with you,” you say with a wicked grin, gently dragging the tip of your sword across his bruising cheek. 

Fear swam in the man’s eyes as he scrambled to his feet. “You’re crazy! You’re not a proper woman!” he shouted as he scuttled to the door. He almost knocked down another man standing in the doorway. This man, however, was a familiar one. 

“Thank God for that,” Dr. Watson said, a grin under his mustache. 

A blush rose to your cheeks and you fingered the hilt of your sword. “I do hope he didn’t take anything of importance, doctor.” 

“Ah, (Y/N),” a welcoming, deep voice resounded from behind Dr. Watson, “I didn’t expect you to be here so soon.” Sherlock stepped into the ransacked flat, his tan over coat unbuttoned and his dark hair smoothly slicked back. 

You felt an even deeper blush rise to your cheeks and you awkwardly presented a curtsy to the tall detective. “You directed me not to hesitate, Mr. Holmes.. erm, Sherlock.” 

You could have sworn you saw a dash of crimson in the detective’s cheeks before he turned away from you, clearing his throat. “Yes, I suppose I did. I have some unfortunate information regarding your brother. John, if you’d please.” At that, Sherlock strode to a back room and John approached you, a sad look upon his kind face. 

He motioned to the arm chair that Sherlock had occupied the last time you had been in the flat. You propped your sword against the desk and took a seat in the arm chair, sinking into it more than you expected. The scent of pipe tobacco and chemicals rose from the green leather. John took the scarlet arm chair across from you and folded his hands in his lap. “Sherlock and I looked into your brother’s whereabouts and well, we confirmed that Sherlock was right. He was caught up with some nasty people. Apparently, your brother and father stole that ‘family fortune’ from some rather shady business men.”

“So, when will he be back? Can we convince these people to stop going after him? Give them the money back?” Your heart was hammering in your chest and your clutched at the arms of the chair until your bruised knuckles turned white. 

“He won’t be coming back,” Sherlock’s rolling voice said somberly from the shadows of the hallway. He stepped into the living area, his over coat now replaced by his smoking jacket. 

Your heart sank. “Sherlock…” you pleaded, your voice soft and breaking. 

Sherlock, much to the surprise of Dr. Watson, knelt down in front of you and took both of your hands in his. You couldn’t keep your bottom lip from trembling. The usually emotionless detective locked his blue eyes with yours. “(Y/N), your brother is dead.”

A sudden sob escaped your throat and you tore your hands from Sherlock’s, covering your face. Hot tears flowed from your covered eyes. You could feel the weight of Sherlock’s smoking jacket as he draped it over your shoulders. Then, Sherlock’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest. You didn’t object to this act of compassion. You leaned into his warm body, sobbing into your hands. “I’m sorry,” Sherlock said, almost quieter than a whisper. His breath was warm and comforting against your ear.

“Thank you,” you choked, “thank you, Sherlock, for bringing me peace of mind.”

Sherlock held you, just a little bit tighter. “If you ever need anything, (Y/N), I am here. Besides, I could always use someone like you to protect the flat.” 

You couldn’t help but smile and let out a small laugh. Sherlock pulled away and your heart sank a little but he held your face in his hands. He stared into your eyes, a small smile on his chiseled face. He brushed away your tears with his thumbs and gently stroked your hair. You could have gotten lost in his sea foam colored eyes but Dr. Watson cleared his throat, interjecting into the moment you were having with Sherlock. 

Sherlock’s cheeks turned a deep crimson and he stood hastily, turning to the doctor. Dr. Watson was holding a tray with tea cups and a kettle. “I would offer some tea to cheer you up but clearly Sherlock has done that just fine,” he said with a playful smirk at his friend. 

You looked up shyly to the detective and gave him a coy smile. He warmly smiled in return and placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, in which you placed one of your hands over his. “Some tea would be lovely, John,” you say kindly. Sherlock took your hand in his and gave it a soft squeeze before walking over to help John. 

You pulled the jacket tighter around your shoulders, watching Sherlock carefully pouring out the boiling water. A warm and fuzzy feeling overcame you and a loving smile spread across your face. Your heart ached with the loss of your brother but it was soothed by the fact that Sherlock would be there for you, always. 


End file.
